Welcome to where I am, where my kitchen's always messy, a pot's (or a poet) always about to boil over, a dog is always begging to be fed. Drafts of poems on the counter. Windows filled with leaves. Wind. Clouds moving over the mountains. If you like poetry, books, and music--especially dog howls when a siren unwinds down the hill-- you'll like it here.

MY NEW AUTHOR'S SITE, KATHRYNSTRIPLINGBYER.COM, THAT I MYSELF SET UP THROUGH WEEBLY.COM, IS NOW UP. I HAD FUN CREATING THIS SITE AND WOULD RECOMMEND WEEBLY.COM TO ANYONE INTERESTED IN SETTING UP A WEBSITE. I INVITE YOU TO VISIT MY NEW SITE TO KEEP UP WITH EVENTS RELATED TO MY NEW BOOK.

MY NC POET LAUREATE BLOG, MY LAUREATE'S LASSO, WILL REMAIN UP AS AN ARCHIVE OF NC POETS, GRADES K-INFINITY! I INVITE YOU TO VISIT WHEN YOU FEEL THE NEED TO READ SOME GOOD POEMS.

VISIT MY NEW BLOG, MOUNTAIN WOMAN, WHERE YOU WILL FIND UPDATES ON WHAT'S HAPPENING IN MY KITCHEN, IN THE ENVIRONMENT, IN MY IMAGINATION, IN MY GARDEN, AND AMONG MY MOUNTAIN WOMEN FRIENDS.

Friday, April 9, 2010

POET OF THE DAY: JOSEPH MILLS

Joseph Mills is currently a faculty member at the University of NC School of the Arts. His published work includes poetry, fiction, drama, and criticism, including two previous volumes of poetry with Press 53. The two poems below are from his brand-new book, Love and Other Collisions. Please go to the Press 53 site for more information.

On My Mother’s 70th Birthday

After I sing “Happy Birthday,” I identify myself,and we talk about the weather, where I live now,how clear the phone signal is, what the bill might be.When I mention her age again, I feel the confusion.70? That can’t be right. There has been a mistake.She has been cheated somehow of time owed to her.How old are you? she asks in a tone that suggestsher suspicion I’m in on the con, then she demandsthe ages of my brother, sister, wife and children.With each answer, I can sense a growing angerat this betrayal by her family, who, behind her back,have grown older than the woman she knows she is.

The Comfort of Family

My mother begins to cry because she’s alone,having grown up with no brothers or sisters.It’s a sentiment I’ve never heard before,and, I guess, it’s reassuring to know,even at seventy, you still can developfresh ways to make yourself feel like shit.

I point out, siblings don’t always get along.Doesn’t she remember how her children fought?She says, That’s just because you were all meanto each other. You are just so dog-gone mean.

I insist she’s not alone. She has familyand friends who visit, who call, who care.She says, Whatever, gives a dismissive wave,and turns away, annoyed by my obstinacy,my refusal to admit that she didn’t getall the people she deserved from this life.

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About Me

I've lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina since 1968, though I'm a native of SW Georgia. My paternal grandmother was born in the Blue Ridge, and I grew up wanting to live here. Where I am.
I've published five collections of poetry, the most recent 4 being with LSU Press, and have published poetry in magazines ranging from The Atlantic Monthly to Appalachian Heritage. But I also hike, bang pots and pans around in my kitchen, and love several dogs who leave fur all over my carpets. I write poetry because it's my way of singing back to the world both within and without.